


Wanting, Needing, and Getting

by Pratzelwurm



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Awkwardness, Canon Compliant, Frottage, Gay Sex, I didn't know there was a word for that until a few months ago lol, Insecurity, It's not really that graphic but there's enough that I felt I should mark it as explicit, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Masturbation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Sex Clouds, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-10
Updated: 2017-06-10
Packaged: 2018-11-12 09:31:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11159097
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pratzelwurm/pseuds/Pratzelwurm
Summary: My (loose) interpretation of the supply closet incident. Don’t @ me.Grif and Simmons get trapped in a closet together after Tucker activates the Temple of Procreation.





	Wanting, Needing, and Getting

**Author's Note:**

> We interrupt your regularly scheduled shitposts to bring you: smut.
> 
> Been working on this for the past few days. I got tired of waiting for someone else to write it, so I did it myself.

It is totally normal to be almost 30 and still a virgin. Yup. Totally normal. There are plenty of people Simmons’ age who still hadn’t had sex, right? Definitely. So, when an ancient alien temple is activated and everyone around you loses their goddamn minds and starts going at it like a bunch of wild animals, there is no shame in wanting to hide.

Is he hiding? No, no, he’s not that much of a coward. He’s simply… looking for privacy. Yes, that’s it. Privacy. No one can blame him for being hesitant to lose his virginity to an alien sex cloud or whatever the hell was infecting everyone. So, as a man of action, Simmons has nobly elected to take refuge in one of the supply closets. It’s small, but not cramped, and far enough away from everything that no one should bother him. There’s nothing in here except for himself and several crates of ammunition. And his thoughts.

Simmons sits on top of one of the metal chests that line the back of the closet and groans. Whose idea was this anyways? Well, he already knows the answer to that, obviously; Tucker is the only one who can unlock the ruins. Simmons is more aggravated that the Temple exists in the first place, and that the person with the capability to activate or deactivate it is a sex-crazed playboy.

Regardless, Simmons reminds himself, he’s alone now, so he’s fine. No one is going to find him here in this closet, where he is alone. In fact, with everyone else so preoccupied with their rampant hormones, perhaps Simmons could make use of the situation and take care of some of his own needs…

Fuck, there are those thoughts again. As appealing as masturbating sounds to his groin, Simmons shoves the idea out of his head. He will not let the sex cloud win, damn it! He is stronger than that! If he is going to touch himself, it is going to be on his own terms, not the whim of some long-gone aliens and an asshole with an energy sword.

 

* * *

 

Supply closets are really, really hot. Simmons can feel the sweat building under his armor. How long has he been in here? Surely at least an hour.

The clock on his suit’s monitor indicates its been about twenty minutes. In a rush of frustration, Simmons yanks off his helmet and tosses it onto the ground, then leans back against the wall behind him with his palms pressed against his face. Is he really going to just ride this out? How long is it supposed to last? A small voice in his brain pipes up that he wouldn’t mind riding _something_ –

Nope. Nope. Nope. Not going there. Simmons is _not_ going to think about sex, remember? He is not going to think about what it might feel like to grind down on someone else’s cock, feeling the walls of his ass expand to take in the girth, feeling his own erection against the other person’s stomach…

His own erection. Fuck. Simmons snaps out of his fantasy at the realization that he is currently half-hard and subconsciously trying to touch himself through his crotch plate. His breathing is irregular and his face has turned as red as his hair. Stupid alien sex cloud.

He wonders if his friends are going through the same hell that he is right now. He wonders if any of them have hooked up with other people. He wonders specifically if Grif has hooked up with other people. This thought catches him off guard, causing him to furrow his brow. Why the hell is he thinking about Grif? And, more importantly, why is thinking about Grif not completely killing his mood?

Fuck it, Simmons thinks, he is just going to take care of business before this gets anymore out of hand, and before his brain goes anywhere else it shouldn’t. Sex cloud or not, he’s sure that a quick wank will help him clear his head. Simmons stands up and begins removing his armor pieces, still irritated at the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. When he’s down to just his black undersuit, he plops back down on the crate and glares at the bulge in his pants. He runs his metal hand through his hair, and places the other on his crotch, pressing lightly against the smooth fabric.

He closes his eyes and begins to tease himself, his breath becoming progressively shallower as he palms his growing erection. He feels like he should be hurrying, and he really doesn’t want to cum in his suit, but he can’t help taking his time.

 _What if someone does find me here,_ he thinks. Somehow, this thought doesn’t hinder him like it usually would. Some part of him might even want Grif to walk in here and –

GRIF? _GRIF!?_ Simmons swears under his breath and closes his eyes tightly, failing to stop his hand from moving along his shaft. Seriously, why the _fuck_ does he keep thinking about Grif!? Simmons is having quite enough of these intrusive thoughts.

Suddenly, there is a noise. Simmons freezes, his left hand gripping the crate he’s sitting on and his right hand still gripping his pants. Someone is behind the door. Someone is moving the handle. Someone is coming in. Simmons’ eyes grow wide with anxiety as he feels all of the heat drain from his face. _Fuck_ , he thinks, _fuck_ fuck FUCK. This is it, this is the end of any dignity he has ever felt about anything in his entire life. He looks around frantically for a place to hide, but there are no options. He’s trapped. His mind races through a list of every person he has ever met, but he doesn’t have time to settle on the worst case scenario before recognizing the intruder.

“Oh shit, sorry dude,” Grif says nonchalantly, “didn’t think anyone would be in here.”

Simmons moves instinctively to cover himself and stares at Grif in disbelief. Grif turns around immediately to exit, but then pauses. He looks back at Simmons.

“Are you masturbating _through your undersuit?_ ”

“S-shut up and leave already!” Simmons sputters angrily, his face turning bright red again.

“Alright, I’m going. Sheesh.” Grif says with a dismissing wave, still not nearly as bothered by this as Simmons feels he should be. He faces the door again and turns the handle – which does not budge. He tries again. Nothing. He tries a third time, just to be certain. Still nothing.

“Well, fuck,” he says.

“ _Well, fuck?_ ” Simmons echoes, his voice cracking.

“The door’s locked.”

“I know the door is locked!”

“Then why did you ask?”

“ I didn’t– I’m just– _oh my god_.” Simmons buries his face in his hands. This is quite possibly one of the worst days of his life. First the sex cloud, and now being caught masturbating by _Grif_ of all people. When he’d briefly entertained the thought earlier, he never thought it would actually happen! And, as if things couldn’t possibly get any worse, he’s still hard.

The two of them stay like that for a good minute, with Simmons hiding his face and trying to curl up into nonexistence, and Grif standing with his back against the door actively avoiding looking in Simmons’ direction. In a rare instance, Grif is thankful he’s wearing his armor, because he can feel the temperature rising in his face. And his crotch.

“So, uh,” Grif says, breaking the awkward silence, “looks like we both had the same idea.”

Simmons peaks at him through his fingers. “What do you mean?”

“Y’know, finding a place to get off.”

“I didn’t come here to get off!”

Simmons folds his arms over his chest defensively. Grif looks at him, making eye contact through his visor. Simmons is sitting there in nothing but his skin-tight undersuit, blushing furiously. It’s kind of… cute? Grif’s lack of immediate response only seems to get him more riled.

“I didn’t!” Simmons insists, “I just came here to get some peace and quiet, and if it weren’t for the fucking _sex cloud_ –”

“I’m sorry, the what?”

“You know, the thing that the Temple let off that’s making everyone go crazy!”

“It’s not a _cloud_ , dude.”

“Well, then, what is it?”

“I dunno. Pheromones?”

“Pheromones.”

“Yeah, like, the stuff in the air that makes you feel things.”

“So like… a cloud.”

“No, clouds are made of gas. Pheromones are made of like, chemicals or something.”

“Gas is also made of chemicals.”

“It’s not a sex cloud!”

“Well, whatever it is, I’m sick of it!” Simmons huffs, slumping back against the closet wall.

Grif, assuming that it’s going to be quite some time before anyone else finds them, slides down into a sitting position, and takes off his own helmet. He reaches a hand up and ruffles his dark, shaggy hair to detach it from his neck and forehead. He looks back up at Simmons, who is sitting on the crate with his legs drawn up to his chest and his arms draped over them, glaring pointedly at something on a nearby shelf. Grif notes that his freckles look much darker when he blushes. He wonders if that applies to the freckles on the rest of his body.

It’s kind of a golden opportunity, Grif thinks, being trapped in a closet together like this. He honestly hadn’t expected anyone else to be here. After all, this is usually where he would come to do his business if he really needed to get a load off and didn’t want to risk being interrupted. Seeing Simmons here, and _touching himself_ nonetheless, felt like some sort of childish fantasy. Maybe it was the pheromones talking (damn it, Simmons, it’s not a sex cloud), but Grif has half a mind to actually make a move.

Not that he would admit it to anyone, but he’d always had kind of a thing for Simmons. Sure, it’s fun to piss Simmons off or to get him to do Grif’s share of the work. And yeah, it’s kind of annoying how Simmons manages to be both an arrogant prick and a total kiss-ass, but he does genuinely enjoy his company. Maybe he just has a soft spot for nerdy redheads. Regardless, Grif feels like he’s done a pretty good job of hiding his interest under the guise of vitriolic friendship.

But yet, here he is. Or, rather, here they are. Sitting six feet apart in a storage closet in the far corner of the New Republic’s base, neither one sure what to do about the current situation. Simmons shifts uncomfortably and chews on his lower lip, which is way hotter than it has any business being.

“How long do you think it’ll be until someone lets us out?” asks Simmons uncertainly.

“Who knows,” Grif shrugs, “no one usually comes here.”

“I mean, they have to notice we’re missing eventually, right?” There’s a hint of panic in his voice.

“Dude, calm down, we’re not gonna be in here forever. Probably just a few hours.”

“That doesn’t help much,” Simmons mumbles. Grif shrugs again.

“I mean, we don’t _have_ to sit around doing nothing.”

“Oh yeah? And what do you suggest we do?”

“We could, y’know, help each other out?”

“…”

“Hey, just a suggestion! I mean, I don’t know about you, but I would really like to get off right now.”

“While I’m here!?”

“You’re missing the point, dude. I meant we could get _each other_ off.”

“O-oh.” Simmons looks away from Grif, pulling his knees tighter into his chest.

Fuck, Grif thinks. He has completely misread the situation. Of course Simmons wasn’t going to be interested in doing anything like that, let alone with him; he was just dealing with the effects of the Temple like everyone else. Grif feels the familiar sensation of stupidity sinking in his chest.

“I mean, I’m not totally against the idea,” Simmons mutters sheepishly, stopping Grif’s train of thought dead in its tracks.

“Yeah?” Grif prods.

“I-it’s just,” Simmons continues, his face somehow getting even more red, “I’ve never, uh… I’ve never… done… um…”

“Done what? Had sex? Dude, everyone knows that. You have virgin written all over you.”

Simmons glares at him.

“Well, _smartass_ , what about you then?”

“What about me?”

“Have you done it?”

“Not recently, but I got around back in college,” Grif says casually, “but anyways, so you’re inexperienced or whatever. Who cares?”

“I’m not completely inexperienced! I… I’ve made out a few times. B-but I didn’t really know what I was doing. And at least one of those times I might have been drunk…” his voice trails off. Simmons is really cute when he’s flustered.

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we just start slow and see where things end up?”

“Er, okay.”

Grif stands up and stretches, popping his neck and shoulders in the process, then begins to take off his armor. Simmons watches him carefully. After what feels like forever, Grif is also wearing nothing but his undersuit. He always hated how he looks in these things; they really emphasize his gut. Then again, he guess he kind of hates how he looks in general. He pulls the top half of the suit off over his head. Much better. He glances back up at Simmons, who suddenly looks alarmed.

“What?” Grif asks.

“Do we–” Simmons clears his throat, “do we have to take off _everything?_ ”

“I mean, I wasn’t going to right away, but being naked is kind of an important part of fucking. Well, not always, but personally, I’d rather not get jizz on any of my clothes.”

“Oh, yeah, I guess you have a point.”

Grif, not sure if he should approach Simmons or not, instead sits back down against the door.

“Are you sure you should be leaning on that? What if someone tries to open it?”

“Didn’t we already agree that no one’s gonna come around here?”

“Yeah, I guess so… We’re really doing this then?”

“If you want to.”

“I…” Simmons pauses. Does he? He supposes that, yes, physically, he does. Physically, he really, really wants to. Emotionally, however, his brain seems to be going a bit haywire. He’s never really thought about Grif like this before. Well, that’s not entirely true, but, as with many things, the moment those thoughts entered his head, they were locked squarely away in the Simmons-Brand Vault of Repression. Going through with this would mean opening up a whole can of feelings that he’s not quite sure he’s ready to deal with.

“Yes,” Simmons finds himself saying before he can stop, “I want to.”

“Then get down here,” Grif says, patting his lap, “I’m not going all the way over there.”

“Why didn’t you just walk over here while you were standing up?”

“Uh, because that would have required more effort?”

Simmons rolls his eyes, but nonetheless gets off of the crate and walks over to Grif, standing over him awkwardly.

“So… what now?”

“Well, you could start by sitting down.”

“Oh, right.”

Grif places his hands on Simmons’ hips. Simmons tenses at the touch, but he lets Grif guide him down into a straddling position. Grif shifts his hands down to Simmons’ thighs, then leans forward until their lips touch. Scrunching up his face in concentration, Simmons returns the kiss by pressing his face firmly against Grif’s. Grif snorts and breaks away, laughing.

“What?” Simmons spouts indignantly.

“Sorry, dude,” Grif says, “you’re just so… serious.”

Simmons exhales slowly. Something in Grif’s tone in different, but he can’t quite place what it is.

“I’m… I’m just nervous, okay?”

“Yeah, I get that. Stop overthinking the situation and just roll with it.”

 _Easier said than done_ , Simmons thinks, but before he can reply verbally, their mouths are pressed together again. Everything is calm and gentle. Simmons tries to follow Grif’s advice, and, instead of thinking, focus on the softness of Grif’s lips and the way Grif’s hands feel rubbing the sides of Simmons’ legs and just _Grif_. He parts his lips slightly, which Grif takes as an opportunity to move his tongue into Simmons’ mouth.

Suddenly feeling like the already-minimal space between them is too much, Simmons wraps his arms around Grif’s neck to bring him even closer. He wants this. He wants this so badly. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt this strongly about anything before. Maybe it’s the sex cloud, maybe it’s years of suppressed emotions, but really, who gives a shit? The only thing that matters right now is that he wants Grif and Grif wants him, too.

Simmons’ unexpected burst of enthusiasm is all Grif needs to reassure himself that this is not an act of pity. Not like he was really worried about it — because obviously, he never worries about anything — but he’s done pity sex before, and that is the last thing he needs to deal with right now. Thankfully, this is definitely not pity. The way Simmons is clutching onto him and whining into his mouth is more than enough to prove otherwise.

Grif decides to take the next step, moving his right hand off of Simmons’ thigh and using it to push up his undershirt, feeling his way along the line where soft skin meets cold metal. Simmons flinches and pulls back, but he seems more uncertain than panicked liked he’d been earlier.

“Um, here,” Simmons says. detaching himself from Grif completely and scooting backwards to give himself more room. Hesitantly, he pulls off his undershirt, followed by his pants, followed by his briefs. Grif, quickly getting the idea, slides off his own pants and underwear in a single motion, then moves forward to lean over Simmons, who complies and ends up laying on his back.

Grif bends down to continue their kiss, and Simmons soon finds himself relaxing again. Ordinarily, he might be thinking about how dirty this floor must be, or how exposed he feels being naked in front of another person, but right now his brain only wants to think about how nice it is to _finally_ have the touch of another person. And yet, he thinks as Grif begins to kiss his neck, part of him still wants more.

Simmons lets out a small noise, grabbing onto Grif’s shoulders with both hands. Grif lifts his head and looks down at him. His face is completely flushed, and he’s looking back up at Grif with a pleading expression that is way too enticing. Grif doesn’t think he can hold back much longer.

And so he doesn’t. Sitting upright on his knees, he grabs Simmons firmly by the hips. Before Simmons has time to process what’s about to happen, Grif hoists him up on top of his legs and grinds their erections together.

“Grif!” Simmons yelps. Grif pauses.

“Too much?” he asks.

“I…” Simmons breathes in sharply, thrusting his hips upwards involuntarily, “oh _god_ …”

Grif takes this as an okay to keep going. He shuts his eyes and grits his teeth as he works up to a steady friction between himself and Simmons. A low groan escapes his throat, and he tightens his hold on Simmons to keep himself balanced. He’s already leaking precum, but he is not going to finish yet, damn it; he may never get another chance at this, so he is going to savour it as long as possible.

Simmons, on the other hand, feels like he’s about to cry. He wants to say something, but he seems to have forgotten how to speak, or really how to do anything except desperately rut against Grif. He thinks his brain might be melting. Grif is breathing heavily and progressively increasing his speed and force, whispering something that Simmons can’t quite hear. The sensation is overwhelming in the best way, and Simmons isn’t sure how much longer he can hold on before –

He lets out a strangled noise and then he’s cumming hard, straight down his stomach. Grif isn’t far behind him.

“Fuck, _Simmons_ ,” Grif chokes out. He grinds down one last time as he releases his own load.

They stay like that for awhile, both of them breathless, sweaty, and full of adrenaline.

A few minutes pass, and Simmons’ brain finally catches up with reality. He realizes, with a rush of anxiety, that he is ass-naked on the floor in a storage closet with his best friend’s cum drying on his chest.

Grif seems to regain clarity a moment later. He looks down at Simmons, who is staring at him with a strange expression. A tinge of guilt stings his conscience.

“Sor–” he starts to say.

“It’s fine,” Simmons interrupts, “don’t apologize. It’s… it’s fine.”

“Are you sure? You don’t look fine.”

“It’s fine!” Simmons repeats, harsher this time.

Simmons sits upright, sliding off of Grif in the process. He looks around for something to wipe himself off with, and spots an old rag tossed onto one of the shelves, the kind they used to clean off their guns. It seemed less-than-sanitary, but it was better than nothing. Turning his back on Grif, he snatches up the cloth and begins scrubbing down his chest and stomach.

Perplexed with the sudden hostility, Grif sits back cross-legged and stares at Simmons, frowning. When Simmons shows no signs of reconciliation, Grif sighs and moves to put his clothes back on.

 

* * *

 

Some time later, and Grif and Simmons (now fully armored again, sans helmets) are back to sitting at opposite sides of the room. The air is thick with tension that neither of them wants to break.

Simmons’ mind is racing with thoughts and emotions that he doesn’t know how to interpret. Does he regret what just happened? One part of him answers “of course” at the same time another says “not at all.” He doesn’t know which one he should believe, and he sure as fuck doesn’t know what he should say to Grif. The best course of action, he decides, is to just shove this whole situation into the vault and forget it ever happened. Simmons is good at doing that.

Luckily for Simmons, Grif is thinking along similar lines. He had let his impulses take over, and now he has potentially fucked up one of the few good relationships he actually has. What was he thinking? That Simmons was just going to magically get over all his weird hangups about sex and romance? That, somehow, Simmons might actually return his feelings? No, that was stupid. Grif had just gotten hyped up on the (fuck it) sex cloud and taken the virginity of someone who’d probably never forgive him for it.

And yet, he can’t bring himself to regret it.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for having kind of a downer ending; I wanted to keep it canon-compliant. Maybe I’ll write a sequel fic later where they actually talk about their feelings (ha). I’ll wait until I see how their reunion goes on the show.
> 
> ...They are having a reunion, right Rooster Teeth? Right!? RIGHT!!?!?!?
> 
> Thanks Velvet for beta'ing this for me, and also for the comment "two bros, chilling in a closet; six feet apart but it's still gay."


End file.
